2,093 Miles


In seven days we traveled through ten different states (but who’s counting?).  Rhode Islanders are accustomed to moving among the states quite easily; we’ve driven to Stockbridge in western Massachusetts for lunch, visited the Vermont Country Store on a day trip, taken the ferry from Connecticut to Long Island and back in a day and thought nothing of it. Get out of New England, though, and all of a sudden the states seem a lot bigger. I guess they are. Rhode Island’s area is just over 1,000 square miles, Pennsylvania’s is just over 46,000, and Virginia’s is slightly less. So there was a lot of ground to cover on this trip! We left Rhode Island, drove through Connecticut, down Route 95 and the stress-filled area through New York and New Jersey, into the rich green farmland of Pennsylvania, landscapes dotted with neatly rolled bales of hay, black cows, a red barn, and a gray silo. All visible from the window of a car traveling at 65 mph. There’s a tiny part of West Virginia that juts out into Route 81, so anyone traveling that stretch of highway will pass through Martinsburg, and perhaps visit the very clean Welcome Center. West Virginia may not have much real estate along Route 81, but they sure make the best of it!

It’s a long drive through Virginia, passing towns with names familiar to any Civil War buff: Front Royal, Shenandoah, Staunton. And some intriguing names, like Burnt Factory, Quicksburg, Fort Defiance, Steeles Tavern. As we turned onto Route 77 towards North Carolina, we passed Fancy Gap and Crooked Oak and we neared Mount Airy, which lies close to the border with Virginia. Mount Airy was the hometown of Andy Griffith, and everywhere you look, there are tributes to this favorite son. Although the town bears little resemblance to Mayberry of TV fame, the downtown area has been preserved and features the Snappy Lunch, Opie’s Candy Store, Floyd’s Barber Shop, and Barney’s Cafe. A sweet place.

We drove to Galax, Virginia, and our trusty GPS told us to follow back roads instead of the highway. Of course, this made us happy, as we love the back roads! Jim handled this leg, thankfully, and maneuvered through Piper’s Gap, one of dozens of mountain roads through the Blue Ridge Mountains. In Galax, we enjoyed the best barbeque (brisket, not pork!) at the Galax Smokehouse, then continued along the Crooked Road, Virginia’s Music Heritage Trail (a 300+-mile route in southwestern Virginia) to the town of Floyd, a regional destination for bluegrass and old-time mountain music.

The following day we drove part of the Blue Ridge Parkway. Back in 2005, we drove the Parkway north from Roanoke to Winchester; this time, we traveled from Fancy Gap south to Boone, stopping at the Blue Ridge Music Center to see the wonderful exhibits and listen to Scott Freeman and his father-in-law Willard Gayheart, Scott on mandolin and Willard on guitar, both in very fine voice. We wanted to stay all day, but the road beckoned. If you’ve never had the opportunity to drive or bike the Blue Ridge Parkway, put it on your list. We drove through the clouds at times, but there are so many overlooks, we found plenty of clear views of the valleys below.

When we left Mount Airy and North Carolina, there was the long drive back through Virginia (in a driving rainstorm) that brought us back to Gettysburg for the night. And with that much driving ahead of us, we decided to make one more stop before heading home, so we chose Rome, New York, east of Syracuse (we had our little dog with us, so our hotel choices were limited, but we wouldn’t have had it any other way). Our final drive was on the New York Thruway down to the familiar Massachusetts Turnpike, crossing over the Housatonic and Westfield Rivers, through Chicopee and Olde Sturbridge Village, into northern Rhode Island and home at last. Back to where it’s less than five miles to church, market, and gasoline.

Mayberry-bound


My husband and I, and our little canine child Bonnie, are driving to North Carolina later this month. Both of us have what is known as “wanderlust,” which is a word that originated in German as meaning a love of hiking. Now its German equivalent would be Fernweh, which means literally, “an ache for distance.” We’re lucky that we both feel this way! Circumstances have prevented us from traveling more: his job, my job, our dog, his father. Both of us think we could live as nomads, happily moving from one state, or even country, to another.

This trip had a purpose when we planned it – we were going to look at real estate and make serious inquiries about relocating to northwestern North Carolina, bordering on Virginia and close to the Blue Ridge Mountains. We researched and decided to stay for the duration in the town of Mount Airy, just minutes from the border with Virginia, and the hometown of Andy Griffith. In fact, Mount Airy was the inspiration for the fictional town of Mayberry in “The Andy Griffith Show.” I’ve read that, while Mayberry was presumed to depict small-town Southern life in the late 50’s/early 60’s, Mr. Griffith said it actually was more like life in the 30’s. And today, in 2011, life is nothing like what it was on television in 1961. Still, there are “Mayberry Days” at the end of September in Mount Airy, where folks celebrate their favorite son, and Barney, Opie, Aunt Bee, Floyd, Goober, and Gomer. A simpler life, and perhaps something for people to embrace in times of uncertainty.

Well, we’ve realized that this trip should be a vacation, and nothing more, at least right now. It would be incredibly difficult and complicated to move at this time, and that’s okay. Our time will come, and maybe this area won’t be our choice – the only way to find out is to go, explore, drive around, chat with the locals. One step at a time!

Meanwhile, I’m looking forward to some barbeque at the Snappy Lunch and a drive to Pilot Mountain.

From the Ocean, White with Foam….to the Mountains


As a child, I couldn’t wait to run into the ocean, and I mean run – full speed ahead, who cares if it’s cold, run and fall right into that salty water. Catch a wave, ride it to shore. My father would join me occasionally, my mother never, my sisters to a point, but I would stay there forever if I could. As a teenager, my enthusiasm had diminished, but not much, although seaweed, especially the red algae that floated in millions of tiny pieces, kept me away, as did the threat of jellyfish in the warmer waters of late August.

The beach has lost some of its allure for me, unfortunately. I attribute it to various causes: now I’m very aware of the fact that the ocean is not all that clean (seriously, how is it that the Department of Environmental Management advises us to not swim at Scarborough one day and then the next day it’s fine?); the beach itself, and the general areas – bathhouses, restrooms, parking lots – are littered with cans, bottles, pizza boxes, dirty diapers; my sister saw a sanitary napkin float by her while she was swimming in the ocean last week; I’m less tolerant of the sun and heat and need to reapply SPF50 constantly for fear of melanoma, while it was a rite of passage to get a blistering sunburn at the start of every summer, soothed by Mom rubbing Noxzema all over my shoulders and back.

But the mountains! Ever since I spent that year in Switzerland (and perhaps before that, with summer vacations to New Hampshire), I’ve been in love with the mountains.  Majestic, towering, some topped with snow year-round. My husband feels the same way, telling me he feels protected when he’s surrounded by mountains. He owes it to his mother, who was born, raised and lived in Salzburg, Austria, until her head was turned by a cocky Army sergeant who convinced her to join him in America. We seem happiest when we’re cradled by the peaks around us.

So next month we’ll head south to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia and North Carolina. While we’re there, we’ll look around to see if this is a place for us to live out the rest of our lives. Who knows? We won’t, not until we see what’s there. And in the meantime, we’ll head up north to walk the beaches in Maine, where the water never warms up!